


Cosplaying the Hard Way

by faeleverte



Category: The Avengers (2012), The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: LSV, M/M, Poor Phil, Suit abuse, new meaning for LSV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-07
Updated: 2013-04-07
Packaged: 2017-12-07 17:46:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/751271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faeleverte/pseuds/faeleverte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Avengers PR has a lot to answer for, and sending the Avengers to cons is the worst idea anyone has ever had.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cosplaying the Hard Way

**Author's Note:**

> With a multitude of thanks to my glorious beta for her help, encouragement, and bunny-feeding frenzy, as well as for fixing my writing goofs.

Nick Fury watched his best agent sip water from a bottle, perfectly calm and collected. Fury took a couple of deep breaths, trying to figure out how best to approach what was certain to be a rather confusing conversation.

“Uh, Phil?” he said finally. “I didn’t know you were a cosplayer.”

“Haven’t in years, sir,” Coulson replied. He leaned against the edge of the table, flinched slightly and straightened up. “Bit chilly there, sir.”

“So... who, exactly, are you supposed to be?” Fury asked.

“Daenerys Targaryen,” Coulson said. At Fury’s blank look, he continued. “From Game of Thrones.” He paused, took another quick sip of water. “Sir.”

Fury worked his mouth a few times, unable to word his next question. He gave up on delicacy and went for his usual blunt.

“Agent, we do have a dress code at SHIELD...” he said. Coulson eyed Fury’s ankle-brushing black coat and raised one eyebrow. 

“For agents,” Fury finished smoothly. He cleared his throat. “Last time I checked, that uniform did not include a blond wig and... is that a dinosaur?”

“Dragon, sir,” Coulson answered, managing to look bored. “I’m the Mother of Dragons.”

“That uniform did not consist of a blond wig and a stuffed dragon, no matter how I appreciate the strategic placement of said dragon,” Fury glanced down at the offending stuffed creature and quickly jerked his eye back to Coulson’s face. “Where the HELL is your suit this time?”

“It will all be in my report, sir,” Coulson said. He finished the water in one gulp. “If you can wait for tomorrow to read it, I would like to go change and check on my team.”

“Phil,” Fury said, leaning his shoulder against a pillar and shaking his head. “How does this keep happening?”

“I don’t know, Nick,” Coulson replied. “I made a point of not wearing my favorite suit this time. Figured if being careful didn’t help, maybe being superstitious would.”

***  
Earlier in the day, they had been sitting at a signing table at yet another comic/sci-fi/geek convention. Tony could not even remember what this one was called. It was smaller than ComicCon, larger than the one Clint had dubbed “Hicksville Nerdapalooza.” It was in another featureless sort of building in a featureless sort of city, and all the people looked the same, anyway. This was PR’s latest attempt at making the Avengers more acceptable: build them a fandom. Badly-drawn comic books (although, to be fair, they were getting better), a cartoon for which Coulson had refused to let his team do any voices (probably afraid of Tony’s swearing and Clint’s inappropriate sexual references), and doubling up on the toys and action figures. And so the Avengers - lethal, superhuman, overtrained, not family-friendly - were expected to make appearances.

Conventions were the bane of Tony’s existence. They were boring. Tony so hated to be bored. There were hours of signing photographs and comics and action figures and other random crap while trying to make polite small talk with mouth-breathing cretins and the unwashed masses, trying not to fantasize about climbing in the armor that was stationed right behind his chair, trying not to imagine blasting a hole in the ceiling and flying away. There were the trips to and from the bathroom or his hotel room where he was accosted by vapid people who practically tossed babies at him for a picture. There were cosplayers who tried for the “sexy Iron Man” look, trying to get a little of the famous Stark Action. And there was the rest of his team.

Steve loved every moment of conventions, but he was the only one who did. He loved signing things for people, the moron. He actually enjoyed listening to the stories and dreams of the little people. He willingly collected babies and small children for photographs, smiling that genuine, all-American grin of his, eyes open and friendly. He would search for the shyest person in the room, the one who watched him from the corner of their eye, and then he’d have that person sitting beside him, carrying on a real conversation during the tedium of meet-and-greets. Steve even answered the most questions while they all sat there, wishing to be somewhere - anywhere - else during open question forums. Then again, Steve probably liked his stupid, spangly suit and his snug little tights, too. He was an anomaly, and not just because of the serum.

Thor didn’t mind the crowds and the people, but he had to be watched closely to keep from drinking or from accidentally starting fights with geeks dressed as villains. And, while he was wonderful at meet-and-greet and quite funny in forums, no one gave him a pen after the first con; he quickly developed a bad habit of signing anything placed in front of him, which included his dinner, other people’s dinners, children, security personnel, and, in one gloriously hysterical moment, the underside of a service dog. Tony sometimes wondered if the dog had ever recovered.

Natasha and Clint both hunted for any reason in the world to escape. Tony was waiting for the day they set off an explosion in the Avengers comic booth, just so the evacuation would get them out of the center of attention. They were always together at these things, whispering to each other, and that could only be a bad thing. Then again, Tony wished they’d share the jokes with him. Hell, he’d help them create the diversion, build a bomb that would only blow up costumes and not the people in them. He fantasized about asking their help to hack into the climate control systems to make a storm indoors. Surely a little snow would put more clothing on that guy in the red thong and go-go boots with the glowy circle thing stuck to his chest.

Bruce was the lucky one; he didn’t have to go. Conventions came up, and Bruce just waved goodbye to the team and headed down to his lab to research gamma radiation and the effect on epithelial cells or pregnant rats or wool-growing mosses or something. Whatever it was he did, he was doing it somewhere that wasn’t here, surrounded by crowds, away from the filth and the crowds and the noise and the crowds and the chaos and the... the geekiness of it all. Yeah, though, to be fair, Bruce might have preferred being able to be in enclosed areas with masses of people over having to live with the Hulk always threatening to pop up and say “hi.” Still, Tony was jealous. He wondered if he should start swearing at children again to get out of the next one.

And then there was Agent Coulson. No one knew what that asshole thought of cons. He was an island of calm in the storm, tailored suit hanging perfectly on his compactly muscled form, tie knotted in a perfect full Windsor or a cocky Pratt, and not a hair out of place. Coulson, with his damned shiny shoes, and his jacket cut to hide the gun on his ribs (and the other on his back, and the one along his thigh, and another at his ankle, and the various, less common weapons he had secreted about his person). In a rare flash of perceptiveness, Tony wondered if the costume-dissolving bomb in his head would take out the suit - if that perfectly polished exterior was as much a fantasy as was the Black Widow catsuit on the thick-waisted, heavy-busted woman in the corner. Tony paused in his musings to enjoy that eyeful for a moment. Damn. That was the kind of ass a man could hold onto all night... wait. No. Agent Coulson. And that thought cooled Tony off enough to get his hand moving again, signing, signing, signing.

*

Coulson was standing near the table with Amalia from PR beside him. His shoulders were comfortably straight, hands loosely clasped in front of him, eyes shaded behind the latest bit of Stark Technology: a phone/HUD/communications device in a pair of glasses. Coulson’s had thick black frames that made him look more like a college professor than a secret agent; he liked that about them. He was whispering quietly - too quiet for Amalia to hear, but loud enough that the mic picked up his words. The sharp-eyed, sharp-eared archer on the other end of the private line could hear him clearly. 

“Dammit, Phil,” Clint said, rubbing the corner of his eye with one knuckle. “I’m trying to listen to people talk at me here. They’re gonna think I’m laughing at them, if you keep this up.”

“But you are, Clint,” Coulson breathed. 

“No, sir,” Clint replied, shooting a glance down the table. “I’m laughing at your descriptions of their expressions.”

“Here comes another one, Barton,” Coulson replied. “She wants to see your arrow.”

Clint laughed again, and then shot his flirtiest grin at the woman who walked up to him. Everything was perfectly normal there. Coulson spent the next few moments ignoring coquettish Clint by checking out the costumes in the line.

*

Steve watched three women walk toward him. They all seemed to be trying to hide behind one another, and, as the woman in front was nearly a foot shorter than her companions, it was not working well. He put on his most “Captain America” smile and waited for them to get close. The tallest, a pretty woman with short, dark hair and a sexy smile pushed forward, reaching into her tote for a comic. She fumbled it and, leaning down to pick it up, cracked her forehead against the edge of the table and dropped to the floor. Steve had jumped the table before anyone else could react. Another woman, the other tall one, with knee-length hair, rested her hand on Steve’s shoulder and leaned down to check on her friend. Steve suddenly crumpled. There was a gleam of silver-grey as the long-haired woman pulled the automatic injector back from Steve’s neck.

“Stop!” the shortest woman barked to the room at large. “Everyone just stop. If I may have your attention, please.”

Several of the costumed sorts stepped forward, and Coulson tensed, realizing too late that what he had taken for sci-fi fun was actually body armor. And then he realized that the stylized weapons were actually real, and that they were pointed at members of the general public. Damn. This was going to be tricky.

“If I may have your attention,” the short woman said again, with a bit of force behind it. “Thank you. I am Doctor Ruth Redland. These are my colleagues, Doctor Amycus Monksbane,” the woman with the shorter hair nodded pleasantly as she rose. “And Doctor Esther Kilgore.” The long-haired woman nodded without looking away from Steve. She had her fingers pressed against the pulse on his neck. 

“We head an organization called the League of SuperVillains.” 

Clint snorted.

“Not the most creative name, I’ll grant,” Doctor Redland said smoothly. “But it does save time in explaining our mission. Now, I’m sure you have all figured out that we will be borrowing your Captain America for a time. Don’t worry; he won’t be harmed. However...”

“That one,” Doctor Monksbane was eyeing Coulson, and she pointed.

“You sure?” Redland asked.

“Yup. That stuff won’t tear.”

“Will you two just hurry up?” Kilgore snapped. “I don’t know how long this will keep him under.”

Coulson edged backward as Monksbane and Redland approached, trying to figure out what he could do to defend himself that wouldn’t result in a bloodbath around the convention center. And then the smaller woman pulled a knife out of some hidden pocket.

“Hold him, please,” she said to Monksbane. Monksbane smiled, just an enigmatic curl of lips, and then a knife dropped out of her sleeve, blade flickering as she wove it through the air in front of her as she sauntered to where Coulson stood. “Nice suit, agent.”

“I’ve heard of you,” she said, reaching out to smooth a hand down his tie. “I know what you’re capable of, but I also know you’re smart. Surely you’re smart enough to know that if anything should happen to me, this will end up, mmm, not pretty.”

He gritted his teeth, fighting against his instincts to stay still as she stepped around behind him and moved her blade to his throat.

“Hurry up,” said Kilgore again. “I’m going to have to give him more in a minute, and we don’t want to damage the subject.”

“One moment, Agent Coulson,” Redland said. Coulson heard Clint gasp as she neatly slashed her knife down the front of each of his legs, cutting his pants away. “Jacket, too, love.” And then it was in pieces on the floor.

“Tie, too,” barked Kilgore. And Monksbane shifted the knife, letting the edge lift Coulson’s chin out the way while Redland smoothly loosened and then removed the necktie.

Redland collected the pants, the pieces of jacket, and the tie and carried them over to Kilgore. A couple of the armored goons stepped forward to bind the fabric tightly around Steve’s legs, using the tie to secure his hands behind his back. More strips of suit were knotted tightly around his arms, and he was slung between the men.

“Doctor Monksbane,” Redland said. “Be a dear and make it a bit more difficult for Agent Coulson to follow us, please.”

“It would be my pleasure,” Monksbane replied, and her knife edge left Coulson’s neck to slash down his back, cutting his shirt, undershirt, and boxers away with one smooth stroke.

All three women followed the limp form of Steve out of the room and away.

***

Tony was in his armor with JARVIS hacking into all the nearby traffic cameras five minutes after the muscle of LSV had withdrawn from the area. Natasha and Clint had vanished into the crowds, listening to gossip and police reports, trying to gain intel, and Thor was pacing angrily, frustrated by his inability to do anything. Coulson had commandeered Amalia’s computer and was typing in the security codes to establish the secure uplink with SHIELD’s computer systems. He would have gone to his room for his suit and his own laptop, but LSV had decided to discourage such activities, as well as adding to the confusion, by detonating explosives in all the elevator shafts and stairwells. He was covered in a thin layer of dust from the explosions, wearing nothing but his glasses, his polished shoes, and a pair of Captain America-themed trouser socks, guns still strapped to his thigh and his ankle, as the other holster belts had fallen away under Doctor Monksbane’s knife.

“Sir,” Clint’s voice said as the comm unit in his ear crackled to life. “There is no sign of them having gone out to the street at any ground-level exit. Widow and I are heading to the basement to look for alternate exits.”

“Be careful, Hawkeye,” Coulson said. “We know these ‘LSV’ people like explosions. Watch where you’re putting your feet.”

“I always watch that, sir,” Clint replied. “Grew up in a circus, remember. Not a place you want to go around looking up.”

“Barton...”

“Yes, sir,” Clint replied to the warning in Coulson’s tone. “Found any pants yet, sir?”

Coulson did not answer, but turned to survey the room. There weren’t many people left nearby. And most of those who were still around did not have costume or clothing parts to spare. But there was one woman...

“Excuse me,” Coulson said, walking up to the pale woman in the white dress. “I’m with the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division. I need to commandeer some of your costume.”

***

“Dammit!” Tony exclaimed, his voice amplified through the Iron Man speakers. “They’re still in the hotel!”

“Where?” Coulson said, the wig flaring behind him as he spun. A stuffed dragon attached to a belt was caught around his waist, offering a modicum of coverage to the front, while the wig hung just below his butt in the back. Not ideal, but at least he could pretend he was decent.

“Surveillance caught them going up to the sixth floor,” Tony replied. “I can’t see the room number from the angle given, but we should be able to find it easily enough. The women went in with two of their guards carrying Steve. The guards came out, but there’s been no activity outside the door since.”

“Thor, with me” Coulson barked. “Hawkeye, Black Widow, make your way to the sixth floor and try to get up the south stairs. Keep an eye on that camera, Stark, and tell us when we’re at the right door.”

Coulson had Thor lead through the people evacuating down the now partially-cleared stairwell, using the tall man as a battering ram against the crowd. The mass of frightened humanity had thinned by the third floor and was gone by the time they reached the sixth. 

“Tell me when, Stark,” Coulson said over the comm. 

“Three more... two... one... That one,” Tony told him.

“Thor,” Coulson said, drawing his gun as Clint and Natasha came up from the other end of the hallway, “if you would be so good as to open the door for us...”

Thor lifted one hugely-booted foot and shattered the lock in one kick. 

Hawkeye was through first, bowstring taut and humming, with Natasha close on his heels, gun leveled. Thor followed, Mjolnir in his hand. Coulson brought up the rear.

Steve was lying spread-eagle on the bed, still in his tan slacks and crisp plaid shirt, although the buttons were missing from the shirt, and the t-shirt under had been slit neatly up the middle, exposing his perfectly toned abs and pecs. His wrists and ankles were caught in heavy manacles, and Coulson’s tie was knotted tightly around his mouth.

“Now there’s an image you won’t soon forget, sir,” Clint said, leveling his arrow at Monksbane, who was sitting on the edge of the bed by Steve’s hip. Coulson chose not to answer that.

Redland was backing against the wall at the far side of the room, eyes wide and startled as she raised her hands. Kilgore stayed in her seat at the desk, fingers dancing across the keys of the laptop open in front of her. Widow stalked over to her, pressing the knuckles of her right hand into the base of her neck, points of the Widow’s Sting going deep into the long hair. 

“Hands off, sweetie,” Natasha purred, “Or I send enough electricity into your brain to leave you dribbling and mindless for the rest of your life.”

Kilgore slowly raised her hands over her head.

“Thor, would you release Captain Rogers, please,” Coulson’s voice was pleasant. “Doctors Redland, Kilgore, Monksbane. Good to see you again.”

“Agent Coulson,” Redland replied with a nod, hands still held up near her shoulders.

“Where’s your backup?” he asked. “I’d rather not be interrupted here.”

“They were supposed to lead you out of here,” Monksbane said. “It’s so hard to get good help these days.”

“You really could have made it, if you had chosen a different hiding place,” Clint said. “Well, for at least an hour or so.”

Thor finished snapping the chains, releasing Steve, who sat up and yanked the tie off of his face. He still looked groggy, but otherwise appeared unhurt.

“We weren’t going to hurt him,” Kilgore said. “We really did just need to borrow him for a little while.”

“And we would have made it, too,” Redland said, “if it hadn’t been for you meddling kids.”

Clint gave a snort of laughter.

“I like them,” he said. “They have balls.”

“I sincerely hope not,” Monksbane countered dryly.

And then Fury’s men were streaming through the door, collecting the computer equipment and luggage.

“Fury wants to see you downstairs right now, Phil,” Jasper Sitwell said, the last to enter the room. “Nice outfit, by the way. I think that’s better than the nightie.” 

“Kiss my ass, Jasper,” Coulson said, swishing out of the room with a sharp hand-gesture for his team to follow. Clint was the first one out the door behind Phil’s wig.

***

“So who are these ‘doctors,’” Coulson asked later from a secure seat behind the desk in his own office. “And do we have to go to any more conventions?”

“They really are doctors,” Fury replied. “Kilgore is a medical doctor, specializing in adrenal disorders. Redland and Monksbane both have Ph.Ds in abnormal physiology. ”

“So who is this League of SuperVillains? Are they a threat?” 

“Nothing we can’t handle,” Fury said. “This was apparently their first move. According to them, they were trying to get a sample of Cap’s blood to do their own work on the serum.”

“Would they have gotten anywhere?”

“I don’t know, Phil,” Fury replied. “But, on the off-chance that they could, we’ve decided to recruit them.”

“This place is really strange, sir,” Coulson said.

“Yes,” Fury rose from the couch. “Speaking of strange...”

“Yes, sir?” 

“You really should do something with that wig,” Fury said, pointing at the long stripe of blond hanging from a coat hook by the door. “It’s... disturbing. Every time I see it, I can’t help but picture your legs sticking out from under it.”

“Yes, sir. I plan on doing something with it very shortly. Probably as soon as you leave.” 

“Then consider me gone,” Fury answered, heading out the door with a curt nod. 

A few moments after the door clicked shut, a ceiling tile swung down, and a pair of booted feet appeared. Clint dropped to the floor and sprawled on the couch in the space Fury had just vacated. 

“So now we have a trio of mad doctors with names that sound like some twisted knitting group,” he said. 

“So it would appear,” Coulson said, glancing back over his report on the events at the convention.

“I wish I had been able to see Fury’s face when you went in there wearing that wig,” Clint said. He bounced to his feet and went to stroke the wig. “And did it tickle? Where it was rubbing your ass, I mean.”

“Strip down, put it on, and find out,” Coulson said. He snapped the file shut and reached down to press a button on the armrest of his chair. Clint heard the door lock snick as the bolt shot home. 

Clint laughed and turned toward the desk. “I don’t think it would look nearly as good on me as it did on you, Phil.”

“Just shut up and put it on, Clint,” Coulson said, standing up and stretching his back. He pulled the dragon out of a desk drawer. “And this goes on your shoulder.”

Clint thought about arguing, but Coulson was wearing that look again, and a wig and a dragon seemed like such a small favor.

**Author's Note:**

> For the real LSV: for all the laughter, for all the support, for all the eye candy, for giving me a place to call home. Sorry we couldn't hold onto Cap just a little bit longer. Maybe next time.
> 
> Comments and kudos are so very welcome. Thanks to all of you who read.


End file.
